Anderson, South Carolina
Despite living on a class M planet nearly covered by water, possessing millions of miles of shoreline, people pay extraordinary amounts to live at land’s end. Several thousand miles of shoreline along man-made lakes make up the Fresh Water Coast of South Carolina. People happily pay more than $1 million an acre for isolated barely buildable lots on these lakes; lots requiring drives of ten miles or more to the nearest grocery store. Some of us willingly risk their financial well-being to buy lots and build expensive houses on river fronts often overtopping their banks, on flood-control lakes with greatly fluctuating levels, on coastal plains subject to catastrophic ravage by hurricanes. There’s a long-standing entrancement with living near water, for which many will pay dearly.
In the past fifty years a troubling world-wide phenomenon has accelerated; the drying up of large inland seas and lakes. The Aral Sea in Russia, the fourth largest body of fresh water on earth, once covered 26,300 square miles providing recreational and fishing resources for thousands. Since implementation of ill-conceived Soviet policy in the 1960s the Aral Sea has become barely a puddle, losing ninety percent of its surface area. Today boats are beached on dry ground miles from the nearest water. The shrinkage of the Aral has been called one of the world’s greatest environmental disasters.
The lowest point on earth would be expected to have increasing amounts of water. At 1,388 feet below mean sea level, the Dead Sea is rapidly shrinking secondary to government water management practices, drying out tourism and resort industries once associated with it. In the last fifty years the Dead Sea has shrunk by one third and the lowest point on earth is eighty feet lower, and dropping another three feet each year. Salinity in the Dead Sea approaches thirty-four percent; one day we will be able to nearly walk on water.
Lake Urmia in northwestern Iran is home to 212 species of birds, 41 reptiles, 7 amphibians, and 27 species of mammals. As the largest salt-water lake in the Middle East and perhaps second largest in the world, its extreme salinity prevents any fish from living in it. Lake Urmia has been shrinking for a long time with annual evaporation rates of 24 to 39 inches. Although measures are being taken to reverse the trend the lake has shrunk by sixty percent and could disappear entirely. Construction of a dam on part of the lake and recent drought has significantly decreased the annual amount of water it receives.
Hauntingly beautiful and eerie tufa formations are found in central California where the great Mono Lake once lapped its shores. By 1982 the lake was reduced to 37,688 acres having lost a third of its 1941 surface area, secondary to siphoning of inflows by the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power. As water levels dropped, radical changes in the ecology of the lake ensued.
Several years ago the Army Corp engineer in charge of managing the 60,000 acre flood control lake by my house told me consideration was being given to converting the lake back to its natural river status, letting the Savannah River run free through its dams. Long-term drought caused the lake to drop twenty feet, converting much of its shoreline into a bleak landscape of red clay punctuated by once-submerged tree stumps. The Army Corp stopped marking boating hazards on most of the lake, claiming they were too numerous to monitor. A reprieve from intense drought has allowed some refilling of the lake. Today individuals still see ‘living on the lake’ as a self-important moniker of prestige, privilege, and financial wherewithal.
Merriam kangaroo rats manage to live their entire lives without drinking any water. Adapted for life in arid environments with modified kidneys, they are able to extract life-giving hydration from seeds and other apparently dry food stuffs. It seems almost paradoxical that on a planet covered with an average of two and a half miles of salt water there would be any place where water is in such short supply.
In the early 1990s the consumption of bottled water became a status symbol in Europe. While travelling in France I found it considered gauche to drink tap water. Mountains containing billions of blue plastic bottles became common. In my travels over the past two decades consumption of bottled water has become nearly universal throughout the world. Investigations in some nations revealed bottled water is nothing but ordinary tap water put into plastic bottles and resold for an extraordinary profit. In the United States this is especially true; nearly half the bottled water in America comes from municipal sources. Water taken from ‘natural’ sources is subject to far less regulation and quality control than tap water.
Consumption of bottled water as a status symbol has recently reached new heights of insanity. A company in Tennessee bottles ordinary water sources for ninety-one labels. One of these is Bling. Twenty ounces of ordinary water in a glass bottle with the Bling name on it sells for $2,300 plus postage. When challenged about Bling’s pricing, management said it was selling a lifestyle by virtue of the pretty bottle covered with tiny Swarovski crystals. $13,800 for a gallon of Tennessee water? On a planet mostly covered with water? Americans now spend billions for bottled water, water that is essentially free at the tap.
Despite our need for and infatuation with Di-hydrogen oxide, there seems to be an even deeper thirst defying easy slaking. With growing secularization of Western civilization we’ve lost contact with those Sources that would satisfy our dryness of soul. As hundreds of millions of us live progressively more intense consumer lifestyles with their promises of fulfillment and satisfaction, we find ourselves in existential crisis; crisis so profound we will go to irrational lengths to satisfy the angst of our parched souls. Some of us actually believe there’s merit in spending $2,300 for a bottle of water, that somehow the ability to do so will engender respect and admiration from those around us. Have we become so desiccated of spirit as to believe such water can really provide meaningful refreshment? So shallow as to believe such reckless abandon with finance has some kind of virtue?
In the arid deserts of ancient Palestine Jesus asked a Samaritan woman for a drink of water. For a Jew to ask a Samaritan woman for a cup of water was a violation of powerful cultural taboos. Incredulous, the woman asked why Jesus would do this; citing the fact Jesus didn’t even have a pail to draw water with, let alone a Bling crystal bottle. Even more incredulous was Jesus’ declaring he had another Source one could draw from that would forever quench true thirst in our souls.
Everyone who drinks of this water shall thirst again; but whoever drinks of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall become in him a well of water springing up to eternal life.
There’s a good chance if I build my house on the waterfront, it will either dry up, leaving me beached miles inland on a desiccated plain, or leave me inundated by flooding. At any time a military engineer has authority to determine if my waterfront lake lots will be high and dry on a red clay desert. I have little say about flooding or hurricanes. Unless I’m a kangaroo rat I will thirst again. Salty waters from the Aral Sea, Dead Sea, or Lake Urmia will never satisfy. Even after drinking Bling water from Tennessee I will thirst again.
It’s guaranteed if I go to the right pre-paid Source, the deepest thirst in my soul will never recur, and I will save a whole lot of money.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Cameras Cannot Capture Happiness 7-13-11
Anderson, South Carolina
When crossing torrid deserts in mid August tormenting images often appears to those seeking relief; mirages produce convincing images of lakes, leading one to believe life-giving water is close at hand. One never arrives at the oasis, finding only more incendiary sand. Sun-bleached bones of many seeking water have been found in the sands of the Mojave, Gobi, and Sahara deserts. Water’s so scarce in some arid regions such that many adults have never seen a surface of water larger than that found on a cup of tea.
Those trapped in worlds of addiction often believe happiness and nirvana to be found in the next fix, that perfect replication of life’s first high. Alas, neurophysiologic reality never allows the next high to be as good as the first. Addicts spend years crawling across the sands of addiction, forsaking all in vain attempts to turn undulating mirages of craving into reality. Their bones end up on marble slabs in county morgues.
For many, happiness is nearly as elusive. Most individuals figure out deserts aren’t good places to find water and stay out of them. Others in recovery have learned addiction leads to nothing but anonymous death. Not so obvious is the lack of happiness to be found in the deserts of secular materialism and consumerism. Hundreds of millions trapped in the fierce winds of consumption find themselves crawling through hot sands of consumer debt, never finding contentment or happiness. Gray box retailers offer little more than tormenting mirages of possibility. We simply cannot find contentment of soul in our next purchase, be it a line of powder cocaine, a 60” flat screen TV, even a castle.
In working with those recovering from drug addictions and alcoholism, I’m finding addiction to consumer goods to be as destructive and persistent in the lives of addicts. One recovering alcoholic living in a halfway house showed up at a meeting recently with a new journalist-grade digital camera in tow. The camera with one intermediate lens sells for about $4,000. Myself being a photographer I asked this fellow what kind of work he was planning to do with this Lamborghini of cameras, secretly lusting for such a camera myself. He said he needed to figure out how to use it first. He confessed he really likes his electronic toys. The camera cost more than the moped he drives since he lost his driver’s license. Perhaps I should check with local pawn shops for the next few weeks to get my next camera.
Another fellow living with his mother showed up on a $20,000 Harley Davidson motorcycle. I wonder what kind of economy allows unemployed addicts and alcoholics to drive a whole fleet of high-end Harleys. I probably don’t want to know.
As a photographer I’m in the curious position of people leaving fine cameras in my life, hoping I find them of great value; able to sell them or make use of them. It’s a bit like trying to find a market for 1976 eight-track tapes in a digital I-pod era; there just aren’t any buyers. Once state-of-the art Nikons, Canons, Minoltas, and Sonys accrete in my den. Yesterday I was offered $1.90 for a magnificent Nikon; like new, never having the first picture taken with it. In a digital age there’s no market for film cameras, no matter how good they are. Twenty years ago this Nikon was the latest consumer must have.
Retailers have developed the science of retail anthropology to a high level, always assuring us there will be some next must haves. The only problem is our addictions to ‘stuff’ will drive us into forlorn deserts as surely as powder cocaine or a lack of water.
Deserts are lonely places. The isolation of drug addiction is legendary; paranoia making users avoidant of all but their dealers. Isolation coming from addiction to secular consumerism and materialism is as deadening. The consequences of living fragmented lonely lives seeking our next electronic fix can be breath taking in their magnitude. Lives lived seeking consolation in ‘stuff’ are often devoid of people and community. Money issues are the number one cause of divorce. There are barren deserts devoid of community and relationships; making the Sahara seem crowded.
Police discovered remains of a woman in a house, dead for up to eight years. She was found in a home long assumed by neighbors to be deserted, after a call from a sister-in-law -- her only living family -- from whom she had been long estranged. Upon entering an upstairs bedroom at the residence, police located skeletal remains on the floor. The woman appeared to have died several years ago without anyone noticing. The dead woman's electricity was cut off years ago and mail failed to stack up on the doorstep because it was redirected to another address prior to 2003. Even government agencies neglected the woman, the state welfare office continued sending her checks despite the fact they were never cashed. Local authorities also failed to notice she had stopped paying property taxes. Was everyone so self absorbed as to not notice or care?
A 104-year-old heiress to a Montana copper fortune, who once lived in the largest apartment on New York City's Fifth Avenue, died in a Manhattan hospital. At 22, she married a poor bank clerk studying law, but they parted ways after only nine months. When she died she still owned a 42-room, multi-floor apartment on Fifth Ave, a Connecticut castle surrounded by 52 acres of land; and a Santa Barbara mansion built on a 23-acre bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Beginning in the 1960s, after her mother died, Clark rarely left her Fifth Avenue home overlooking Central Park. She was rarely seen by building staff, who delivered whatever she needed. She moved into a hospital in the 1980s. The reclusive millionaire spent the last two decades of her life living in New York City hospitals. Her fortune estimated at a half-billion dollars did nothing but buy her an isolated lonely life and opportunity to die alone in a rented hospital room.
A 68-year-old man's body was discovered deep in the Oregon woods on a one-lane dirt road by a U.S. Forest Service survey crew. The sheriff said the man didn't appear to have a permanent home. He had plenty of cash: $5,000 was found with his body. But that didn't help him as the central Oregon winter storms kept dumping snow on the area, fast and hard and merciless. He remained frozen in the snow until the spring melt. No one had reported him missing. Did this man like others decide he didn’t need anyone, only to die alone? Like the copper baroness, he died alone amidst everything he wanted except that which mattered mostly, a sense of community and belonging.
Recovery meetings often close with everyone holding hands as the group chair proclaims, “Let this circle represent that which we can’t do along we can do together. Even the best cameras in the world cannot capture images of the true happiness of those who realize wealth comes not from our stuff, but from timeless treasures of long-standing friendships and family, of being part of a circle of humanity.
When crossing torrid deserts in mid August tormenting images often appears to those seeking relief; mirages produce convincing images of lakes, leading one to believe life-giving water is close at hand. One never arrives at the oasis, finding only more incendiary sand. Sun-bleached bones of many seeking water have been found in the sands of the Mojave, Gobi, and Sahara deserts. Water’s so scarce in some arid regions such that many adults have never seen a surface of water larger than that found on a cup of tea.
Those trapped in worlds of addiction often believe happiness and nirvana to be found in the next fix, that perfect replication of life’s first high. Alas, neurophysiologic reality never allows the next high to be as good as the first. Addicts spend years crawling across the sands of addiction, forsaking all in vain attempts to turn undulating mirages of craving into reality. Their bones end up on marble slabs in county morgues.
For many, happiness is nearly as elusive. Most individuals figure out deserts aren’t good places to find water and stay out of them. Others in recovery have learned addiction leads to nothing but anonymous death. Not so obvious is the lack of happiness to be found in the deserts of secular materialism and consumerism. Hundreds of millions trapped in the fierce winds of consumption find themselves crawling through hot sands of consumer debt, never finding contentment or happiness. Gray box retailers offer little more than tormenting mirages of possibility. We simply cannot find contentment of soul in our next purchase, be it a line of powder cocaine, a 60” flat screen TV, even a castle.
In working with those recovering from drug addictions and alcoholism, I’m finding addiction to consumer goods to be as destructive and persistent in the lives of addicts. One recovering alcoholic living in a halfway house showed up at a meeting recently with a new journalist-grade digital camera in tow. The camera with one intermediate lens sells for about $4,000. Myself being a photographer I asked this fellow what kind of work he was planning to do with this Lamborghini of cameras, secretly lusting for such a camera myself. He said he needed to figure out how to use it first. He confessed he really likes his electronic toys. The camera cost more than the moped he drives since he lost his driver’s license. Perhaps I should check with local pawn shops for the next few weeks to get my next camera.
Another fellow living with his mother showed up on a $20,000 Harley Davidson motorcycle. I wonder what kind of economy allows unemployed addicts and alcoholics to drive a whole fleet of high-end Harleys. I probably don’t want to know.
As a photographer I’m in the curious position of people leaving fine cameras in my life, hoping I find them of great value; able to sell them or make use of them. It’s a bit like trying to find a market for 1976 eight-track tapes in a digital I-pod era; there just aren’t any buyers. Once state-of-the art Nikons, Canons, Minoltas, and Sonys accrete in my den. Yesterday I was offered $1.90 for a magnificent Nikon; like new, never having the first picture taken with it. In a digital age there’s no market for film cameras, no matter how good they are. Twenty years ago this Nikon was the latest consumer must have.
Retailers have developed the science of retail anthropology to a high level, always assuring us there will be some next must haves. The only problem is our addictions to ‘stuff’ will drive us into forlorn deserts as surely as powder cocaine or a lack of water.
Deserts are lonely places. The isolation of drug addiction is legendary; paranoia making users avoidant of all but their dealers. Isolation coming from addiction to secular consumerism and materialism is as deadening. The consequences of living fragmented lonely lives seeking our next electronic fix can be breath taking in their magnitude. Lives lived seeking consolation in ‘stuff’ are often devoid of people and community. Money issues are the number one cause of divorce. There are barren deserts devoid of community and relationships; making the Sahara seem crowded.
Police discovered remains of a woman in a house, dead for up to eight years. She was found in a home long assumed by neighbors to be deserted, after a call from a sister-in-law -- her only living family -- from whom she had been long estranged. Upon entering an upstairs bedroom at the residence, police located skeletal remains on the floor. The woman appeared to have died several years ago without anyone noticing. The dead woman's electricity was cut off years ago and mail failed to stack up on the doorstep because it was redirected to another address prior to 2003. Even government agencies neglected the woman, the state welfare office continued sending her checks despite the fact they were never cashed. Local authorities also failed to notice she had stopped paying property taxes. Was everyone so self absorbed as to not notice or care?
A 104-year-old heiress to a Montana copper fortune, who once lived in the largest apartment on New York City's Fifth Avenue, died in a Manhattan hospital. At 22, she married a poor bank clerk studying law, but they parted ways after only nine months. When she died she still owned a 42-room, multi-floor apartment on Fifth Ave, a Connecticut castle surrounded by 52 acres of land; and a Santa Barbara mansion built on a 23-acre bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Beginning in the 1960s, after her mother died, Clark rarely left her Fifth Avenue home overlooking Central Park. She was rarely seen by building staff, who delivered whatever she needed. She moved into a hospital in the 1980s. The reclusive millionaire spent the last two decades of her life living in New York City hospitals. Her fortune estimated at a half-billion dollars did nothing but buy her an isolated lonely life and opportunity to die alone in a rented hospital room.
A 68-year-old man's body was discovered deep in the Oregon woods on a one-lane dirt road by a U.S. Forest Service survey crew. The sheriff said the man didn't appear to have a permanent home. He had plenty of cash: $5,000 was found with his body. But that didn't help him as the central Oregon winter storms kept dumping snow on the area, fast and hard and merciless. He remained frozen in the snow until the spring melt. No one had reported him missing. Did this man like others decide he didn’t need anyone, only to die alone? Like the copper baroness, he died alone amidst everything he wanted except that which mattered mostly, a sense of community and belonging.
Recovery meetings often close with everyone holding hands as the group chair proclaims, “Let this circle represent that which we can’t do along we can do together. Even the best cameras in the world cannot capture images of the true happiness of those who realize wealth comes not from our stuff, but from timeless treasures of long-standing friendships and family, of being part of a circle of humanity.
Living Large or Barely Living 6-30-11
Anderson, South Carolina
The most sobering image I have from working with those caught in gravity wells of addiction and alcoholism is that of profound social isolation. Happy images of having a beer in the neighborhood pub where everyone is our best friend are mostly wishful thinking. Alcoholics often devolve into solitary misery, drinking alone at home until those homes are lost on the journey into the black hole of alcoholic despair. Lost driver’s licenses, jails, unemployment, fleeing spouses, frightened children, and alcoholic suspicion create a suffering staggering in its depths. Many alcoholics describe isolation so complete as leave them friendless save a cold glass bottle of death’s elixir.
Drug addiction often produces a profound paranoia that even has its practitioners boarding up their windows with plywood. Runaway fear of law enforcement and unpaid drug dealers keeps users running and hiding. As with cockroaches, the light of day becomes overwhelming for those journeying into this darkest night of the soul. A long-time cocaine addict related to me the oppressiveness of living in a small house with every window completely sealed with plywood, the only light coming from furtive glances out a barely cracked door. The most hopeful sign of his recovery came the day he took down his plywood and allowed life-giving Light to enter his inner world.
David Shenk’s Data Smog describes a world overwhelmed by too much information. In the mid 1990s as the Internet was just becoming a household reality, Shenk put to paper his concerns about potential abuses of personal information and the relentless sense of overwhelm and stress we might become subject to if cyberspace overflowed our daily lives. Identity theft, Trojan viruses, social networking, cyber-bullying, spamming, cyber-terrorism, and too much information have proven Shenk’s concerns well-founded. Only ten days ago I was targeted for cyber abuse and for seven minutes one night became an unwitting purveyor of links to everything from porn to weight loss to smoking cessation even male enhancement. Two days later a Russian Trojan virus was embedded in a photo file sent to me from an orphanage in India. My way of working and using the Internet was instantly altered, causing no small measure of inconvenience and expense. Part of me wants to isolate behind the plywood. Consultants tell me firewalls and virus protection are useless against these newest cyber weapons.
Shenk and others describe their concerns about our growing addiction to information and external stimuli. Addictive journeys by their nature demand ever more of us, eventually our souls. Addiction to electronic inputs has become surreal. I have to own my own addictions. Going without a computer for more than a week almost left me listless, unable to publish my written or photographic work, unable to interact with my readers and subscribers, unable to manage my financial affairs. Restructuring my days without a computer was surprisingly challenging. I couldn’t even upload my cameras.
A few days ago a neighbor was lamenting the meaninglessness of her life. Anti-depressants had failed in their mission to give her a spiritually satisfying sense of purpose and calling. In conversation I suggested turning off her television and getting out into the light and interacting with people might be a useful change. One would have thought I was proposing she go cold turkey from her meds. When suggesting she use the money she spends on a premium cable subscription to instead travel, she nearly wilted, declaring “TV makes my life barely livable.” She wasn’t the least bit interested in seeing a wondrous world with her own eyes, unable to consider anything other than the negative blue flicker that oppresses her soul. Taking $2000 a year spent on cable service and using it to make journeys overseas was inconceivable. But then most alcoholics and drug addicts will spend the rent and grocery money on their elixirs.
In the depths of his cocaine addiction, a year behind on the rent for his plywood prison, Scott managed to keep his cable TV hooked up, often describing to me tortured sleepless nights illuminated with the flickering blue glare of 3 AM infomercials. To this day he’s unemployed, unwilling to turn off the TV and find a different way. TV has become a thin substitute for cocaine.
Recently I was with a small group in the CNN studios in Atlanta. Those I travelled with are professing members of a large fundamental Baptist church. One of them described leaving her TV on 24/7. The idea of living without ongoing noise and input from TV was disquieting to the max. Another described a multi-year practice of structuring all her daytime activity around the airing of the soap opera “Days of Our Lives.” Curiously, most of those in my group displayed a nearly reverential attitude towards anchors working the news desks of CNN. I could not but have a secret curiosity as to what would happen if this devotion and reverence was applied instead to a life of service, one lived beyond entrenched addiction to TV.
Many sacred texts suggest we can place our focus and loyalty on but one thing at a time; serving only one master at a time. Christian writings declare strongly where we place our treasure is where our hearts are. Native American traditions describe the story of a young boy wanting to know whether to feed the white dog or the black dog. He was told to feed and care for the one he wanted to get bigger. The white dog is symbolic of those things good and virtuous in life. The black dog is representative of things dark and destructive. The Pauline Epistles declare the merits of feeding the right dog.
Whatever is true,, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure,, whatever is lovely,, whatever is of good repute, if there is any excellence and if anything worthy of praise, let your minds dwell on these things … I can do all things through Him who strengthens me.
Disconnect and you might just plug into a large life.
The most sobering image I have from working with those caught in gravity wells of addiction and alcoholism is that of profound social isolation. Happy images of having a beer in the neighborhood pub where everyone is our best friend are mostly wishful thinking. Alcoholics often devolve into solitary misery, drinking alone at home until those homes are lost on the journey into the black hole of alcoholic despair. Lost driver’s licenses, jails, unemployment, fleeing spouses, frightened children, and alcoholic suspicion create a suffering staggering in its depths. Many alcoholics describe isolation so complete as leave them friendless save a cold glass bottle of death’s elixir.
Drug addiction often produces a profound paranoia that even has its practitioners boarding up their windows with plywood. Runaway fear of law enforcement and unpaid drug dealers keeps users running and hiding. As with cockroaches, the light of day becomes overwhelming for those journeying into this darkest night of the soul. A long-time cocaine addict related to me the oppressiveness of living in a small house with every window completely sealed with plywood, the only light coming from furtive glances out a barely cracked door. The most hopeful sign of his recovery came the day he took down his plywood and allowed life-giving Light to enter his inner world.
David Shenk’s Data Smog describes a world overwhelmed by too much information. In the mid 1990s as the Internet was just becoming a household reality, Shenk put to paper his concerns about potential abuses of personal information and the relentless sense of overwhelm and stress we might become subject to if cyberspace overflowed our daily lives. Identity theft, Trojan viruses, social networking, cyber-bullying, spamming, cyber-terrorism, and too much information have proven Shenk’s concerns well-founded. Only ten days ago I was targeted for cyber abuse and for seven minutes one night became an unwitting purveyor of links to everything from porn to weight loss to smoking cessation even male enhancement. Two days later a Russian Trojan virus was embedded in a photo file sent to me from an orphanage in India. My way of working and using the Internet was instantly altered, causing no small measure of inconvenience and expense. Part of me wants to isolate behind the plywood. Consultants tell me firewalls and virus protection are useless against these newest cyber weapons.
Shenk and others describe their concerns about our growing addiction to information and external stimuli. Addictive journeys by their nature demand ever more of us, eventually our souls. Addiction to electronic inputs has become surreal. I have to own my own addictions. Going without a computer for more than a week almost left me listless, unable to publish my written or photographic work, unable to interact with my readers and subscribers, unable to manage my financial affairs. Restructuring my days without a computer was surprisingly challenging. I couldn’t even upload my cameras.
A few days ago a neighbor was lamenting the meaninglessness of her life. Anti-depressants had failed in their mission to give her a spiritually satisfying sense of purpose and calling. In conversation I suggested turning off her television and getting out into the light and interacting with people might be a useful change. One would have thought I was proposing she go cold turkey from her meds. When suggesting she use the money she spends on a premium cable subscription to instead travel, she nearly wilted, declaring “TV makes my life barely livable.” She wasn’t the least bit interested in seeing a wondrous world with her own eyes, unable to consider anything other than the negative blue flicker that oppresses her soul. Taking $2000 a year spent on cable service and using it to make journeys overseas was inconceivable. But then most alcoholics and drug addicts will spend the rent and grocery money on their elixirs.
In the depths of his cocaine addiction, a year behind on the rent for his plywood prison, Scott managed to keep his cable TV hooked up, often describing to me tortured sleepless nights illuminated with the flickering blue glare of 3 AM infomercials. To this day he’s unemployed, unwilling to turn off the TV and find a different way. TV has become a thin substitute for cocaine.
Recently I was with a small group in the CNN studios in Atlanta. Those I travelled with are professing members of a large fundamental Baptist church. One of them described leaving her TV on 24/7. The idea of living without ongoing noise and input from TV was disquieting to the max. Another described a multi-year practice of structuring all her daytime activity around the airing of the soap opera “Days of Our Lives.” Curiously, most of those in my group displayed a nearly reverential attitude towards anchors working the news desks of CNN. I could not but have a secret curiosity as to what would happen if this devotion and reverence was applied instead to a life of service, one lived beyond entrenched addiction to TV.
Many sacred texts suggest we can place our focus and loyalty on but one thing at a time; serving only one master at a time. Christian writings declare strongly where we place our treasure is where our hearts are. Native American traditions describe the story of a young boy wanting to know whether to feed the white dog or the black dog. He was told to feed and care for the one he wanted to get bigger. The white dog is symbolic of those things good and virtuous in life. The black dog is representative of things dark and destructive. The Pauline Epistles declare the merits of feeding the right dog.
Whatever is true,, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure,, whatever is lovely,, whatever is of good repute, if there is any excellence and if anything worthy of praise, let your minds dwell on these things … I can do all things through Him who strengthens me.
Disconnect and you might just plug into a large life.
Walking a Thin Line – More on Mortality 6-22-11
Atlanta, GA
A week ago I was up all night with 8 out of 10 pain after being strafed in the dark by a swarm of yellow jackets, never even seeing my attackers; not laid out on the floor but close. Three years ago a dear friend was struck down by a cloud of these in the light of day, her beloved husband watching her writhe in last agonies. Initially wondering if I might go into anaphylactic shock and soon be done with this wondrous experience of life, the night proved sleepless with my pain refractory to analgesics. My pain remained daunting the next day until mid afternoon and then dropped off to a 5 or 6 out of 10. I slept the second night and was pain free the following day and have remained so. I was struck with intense pain and it proved short lived, leaving no apparent deficits. I wonder why Joan paid with her life for the same experience while I had but one unpleasant night and day. I walked a thin line.
I speculate about people who never get paroled from the nightmare of intense pain; how they keep from going insane. I just read a biography of the life of Mattie Stepanek. He was tortured his entire life (all 13 years of it) with an evil neuromuscular disease so rare such that his mother and his three siblings are the only ones world-wide documented to have it. Mattie and his siblings all died from the disorder and their mother will as well. Mattie somehow reached inside of his soul and found God in a way allowing him to transcend his unremitting agony and share a profoundly powerful life message of peace that gained the attentions of people at the very highest levels in society. He wrote five run-away best sellers on peacemaking and acceptance. His message has not faded even seven years after his death. He found some kind of amazing grace to live above his torments. His life message was as St. Catherine’s. "Be the person God meant you to be...and you will set the world on fire." Mattie’s work resonates greatly for me as I strongly believe there is something very specific we are each called to manifest and give away. Yes, the world would be nearly beyond imagination if we were so captivated by such possibilities.
Yesterday I had several close encounters of the fourth kind, reminding me just how fragile and precarious the precious gift of life is. While passing through mid-town Atlanta Friday afternoon en route to the CNN studios a car in front of us in the high-speed high-occupancy lane exploded into a fireball, sending a column of ebony smoke into a hot humid sky. The intensity of the inferno’s heat was amazing. I don’t know how many were immolated, about half a dozen people were soon slowly walking up and down the high speed lane in a daze, waiting for ambulances, fire trucks, and police to arrive. Suddenly life seemed very fragile –a very real image of one’s dreams going up in smoke having just appeared before me; a powerful reminder of our true powerlessness.
After completing our time in the CNN studios we were walking across nearby Williams Street. A car running the red light in the opposite direction set up a cascade of collisions in a very high stakes billiards game. If we had been in the crosswalk a mere second later we would have contributed heavily to the high stakes of that collision. We have so very little power in our lives. We walk a thin line.
Despite seeing a fireball detonate in our path, viewing hundreds of live CNN studio feeds depicting catastrophe across the globe, crossing the street just in time to avoid calamity, the day ended in spectacular fashion. A fine dinner of abundant portion and seasoning re-energized our flagging spirits. A sunset containing virtually every color of the rainbow demarcated the edges of day and night in stunning style. For at least another day my number was not called. Mattie’s was called way too early.
What is absolutely certain is my powerlessness to affect any of the outcomes of the events we experienced in the short span of six hours. I think about Christian scriptures reminding us that God’s true strength is to be found in embracing our powerlessness. I think about foundational precepts of recovery allowing addicts and alcoholics to achieve sobriety by admitting their complete powerlessness and inability to control their lives. “We came to believe that God was doing for us what we could not do for ourselves.” Sometimes looking both ways before crossing the street is just not enough. There are evidently plenty of times when we need a divine intervention just to stay alive, let alone accomplish anything with our lives. We walk a thin line.
Mattie knew from the start that he was going to have to live fast and deeply in order to do what he felt called to; knowing life was going to be very short. His entire life was about creating legacy. He knew attitude was key to experiencing a full and abundant life, even if far too short and filled with too much pain. It is a thin line between gratitude and resentment. “While the facts of your life may not be your choice, the attitude with which you deal with those facts is entirely your choice, and therein lies your capacity to make a meaningful difference in the world, to leave behind an echo and a silhouette that can gently and beautifully shape the future.”I received several graphic reminders that life needs to be lived fast and deeply. Paradoxically, to live fast and deeply one must take time each day to contemplate, to be calm, and hear the Still Small Voice. It’s a very thin line to walk. It’s only then I can hope to leave behind an echo in the human experience, to create legacy.
A week ago I was up all night with 8 out of 10 pain after being strafed in the dark by a swarm of yellow jackets, never even seeing my attackers; not laid out on the floor but close. Three years ago a dear friend was struck down by a cloud of these in the light of day, her beloved husband watching her writhe in last agonies. Initially wondering if I might go into anaphylactic shock and soon be done with this wondrous experience of life, the night proved sleepless with my pain refractory to analgesics. My pain remained daunting the next day until mid afternoon and then dropped off to a 5 or 6 out of 10. I slept the second night and was pain free the following day and have remained so. I was struck with intense pain and it proved short lived, leaving no apparent deficits. I wonder why Joan paid with her life for the same experience while I had but one unpleasant night and day. I walked a thin line.
I speculate about people who never get paroled from the nightmare of intense pain; how they keep from going insane. I just read a biography of the life of Mattie Stepanek. He was tortured his entire life (all 13 years of it) with an evil neuromuscular disease so rare such that his mother and his three siblings are the only ones world-wide documented to have it. Mattie and his siblings all died from the disorder and their mother will as well. Mattie somehow reached inside of his soul and found God in a way allowing him to transcend his unremitting agony and share a profoundly powerful life message of peace that gained the attentions of people at the very highest levels in society. He wrote five run-away best sellers on peacemaking and acceptance. His message has not faded even seven years after his death. He found some kind of amazing grace to live above his torments. His life message was as St. Catherine’s. "Be the person God meant you to be...and you will set the world on fire." Mattie’s work resonates greatly for me as I strongly believe there is something very specific we are each called to manifest and give away. Yes, the world would be nearly beyond imagination if we were so captivated by such possibilities.
Yesterday I had several close encounters of the fourth kind, reminding me just how fragile and precarious the precious gift of life is. While passing through mid-town Atlanta Friday afternoon en route to the CNN studios a car in front of us in the high-speed high-occupancy lane exploded into a fireball, sending a column of ebony smoke into a hot humid sky. The intensity of the inferno’s heat was amazing. I don’t know how many were immolated, about half a dozen people were soon slowly walking up and down the high speed lane in a daze, waiting for ambulances, fire trucks, and police to arrive. Suddenly life seemed very fragile –a very real image of one’s dreams going up in smoke having just appeared before me; a powerful reminder of our true powerlessness.
After completing our time in the CNN studios we were walking across nearby Williams Street. A car running the red light in the opposite direction set up a cascade of collisions in a very high stakes billiards game. If we had been in the crosswalk a mere second later we would have contributed heavily to the high stakes of that collision. We have so very little power in our lives. We walk a thin line.
Despite seeing a fireball detonate in our path, viewing hundreds of live CNN studio feeds depicting catastrophe across the globe, crossing the street just in time to avoid calamity, the day ended in spectacular fashion. A fine dinner of abundant portion and seasoning re-energized our flagging spirits. A sunset containing virtually every color of the rainbow demarcated the edges of day and night in stunning style. For at least another day my number was not called. Mattie’s was called way too early.
What is absolutely certain is my powerlessness to affect any of the outcomes of the events we experienced in the short span of six hours. I think about Christian scriptures reminding us that God’s true strength is to be found in embracing our powerlessness. I think about foundational precepts of recovery allowing addicts and alcoholics to achieve sobriety by admitting their complete powerlessness and inability to control their lives. “We came to believe that God was doing for us what we could not do for ourselves.” Sometimes looking both ways before crossing the street is just not enough. There are evidently plenty of times when we need a divine intervention just to stay alive, let alone accomplish anything with our lives. We walk a thin line.
Mattie knew from the start that he was going to have to live fast and deeply in order to do what he felt called to; knowing life was going to be very short. His entire life was about creating legacy. He knew attitude was key to experiencing a full and abundant life, even if far too short and filled with too much pain. It is a thin line between gratitude and resentment. “While the facts of your life may not be your choice, the attitude with which you deal with those facts is entirely your choice, and therein lies your capacity to make a meaningful difference in the world, to leave behind an echo and a silhouette that can gently and beautifully shape the future.”I received several graphic reminders that life needs to be lived fast and deeply. Paradoxically, to live fast and deeply one must take time each day to contemplate, to be calm, and hear the Still Small Voice. It’s a very thin line to walk. It’s only then I can hope to leave behind an echo in the human experience, to create legacy.
In a Thin Space 6-15-11
Anderson, South Carolina
Many days find me entering into skirmishes with myself, knowing what I ought to be doing to maximize the value of my day, yet instead dissipating precious gifts of time, doing things having little eternal value. A hundred urgent but unimportant activities present themselves to me daily, often crowding out those responsible for serenity and stability in my life. Often I hear those having victory over long-standing addiction relating their ongoing habits of rising early for meditation and prayer; describing consistent practices Benedictine monks would do well to emulate. I often wonder how impoverished uneducated individuals are able to enjoy the fruits of good living by maintaining personal discipline for years on end.
Fifteen centuries ago St. Benedict developed his Rule of Life, an extensive set of principles and rules foundational to the way of life in hundreds of monastic orders. These rules seem daunting to those of us living fast-paced lives, those of us who tear out of the starting blocks every morning, without warming up. The idea of taking ten minutes to plan my day, having a few quiet thoughts to contemplate best use of my day, seeking Higher guidance doesn’t even occur to me most days. Often I’ve left a cloud of dust in my wake as I careen into another day, occluding any clarity I might have received from divine guidance. Many days find me spinning my wheels.
The most successful man on earth lived a short life in dusty deserts devoid of communication resources, yet managed to transform life for billions. He knew the secret of going off into quiet places early in the day, seeking Divine direction for His days. Jesus in a mere three years accomplished more than the rest of us could ever conceive of, yet He told us if we seek Him, we ourselves could do even greater things.
An anonymous meditation exhorts me to slow down before I rocket into my cloud of hyperactivity. “Calmness is constructive of good. Agitation is destructive of good. I should not rush into action. I should first “be still and know that He is God.” Then I should act only as God directs me through my conscience. Only trust, perfect trust in God, can keep me calm when all around me are agitated. Calmness is trust in action. I should seek all things that can help me to achieve calmness. To attain material things, the world learns to attain speed. To attain spiritual things, I have to learn to attain a state of calm.” Jesus and St Benedict figured this out, transforming the lives of those around them.
Some of us don’t know how to attain calm, moving at the speed of light doing things we think all too important. Even after nearly forty years of claiming a spiritual/religious way of life, I’ve struggled endlessly with looking both ways before crossing the street into the activities of the day. For me, the ultimate challenge is doing ‘nothing’.
Transforming spiritual practices are challenging to acquire. Even the apostle Paul described his ongoing struggles with a lack of self control, a failure to discipline himself declaring, “I don’t do the things I would and do the things I wouldn’t.” Perhaps learning to crawl will lead me to baby steps, to the ability to walk, to jog, then to run fully the race set before me. Another anonymous writer declares, “Discipline of yourself is absolutely necessary before the power of God is given to you. When you see others manifesting the power of God, you probably have not seen the discipline that went before. They made themselves ready. All your life is a preparation for more good to be accomplished when God knows that you are ready for it. So keep disciplining yourself in the spiritual life every day. Learn so much of the spiritual laws that your life cannot again be a failure.”
I’ve taken it on as a challenge to exercise one small discipline every day, to go into the chapel in my house for ten minutes at first waking. It doesn’t matter what I do in there, only that I get there. Merely disciplining myself to go into a set apart space for ten minutes is about as much as I can muster in the way of discipline. I take a cell phone in there with me and set the alarm for ten minutes and then get in a position of repose. It doesn’t matter if I read or what I think during those ten minutes. All I have to do is be in there every day first thing. I can hope visiting a disused room daily for mere moments a day will result in having occasional thoughts of God, of seeking His will, of actually experiencing a quiet mind for a few seconds. One day I might find I have been still and known God for a few moments. It just might transform my world.
Mattie Stepanek lived an extraordinary life, accomplishing more in thirteen years than a dozen of us combined could in a hundred. He transformed the world around him with his best seller Heartsong books. Leaving a legacy of peace, poetry, art and philosophy, Mattie changed the lives of presidents, celebrities and millions struggling with disability before dying himself from a genetic nightmare that previously killed all his siblings. Mattie learned to live in what a preacher called ‘thin space’; that place where your spirit and God are in closest contact. Living on the edge of mortality has a way of keeping one in thin space.
We don’t have to be on the edge of mortality, as Mattie was, in order to be in that thin space where we hear extraordinary things from God. In recovery we learn we are able through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God. We can often visit our thin space. I’ve learned from often impoverished uneducated addicts the source of true riches and true knowledge.
I think I better go in the other room before the phone rings.
Many days find me entering into skirmishes with myself, knowing what I ought to be doing to maximize the value of my day, yet instead dissipating precious gifts of time, doing things having little eternal value. A hundred urgent but unimportant activities present themselves to me daily, often crowding out those responsible for serenity and stability in my life. Often I hear those having victory over long-standing addiction relating their ongoing habits of rising early for meditation and prayer; describing consistent practices Benedictine monks would do well to emulate. I often wonder how impoverished uneducated individuals are able to enjoy the fruits of good living by maintaining personal discipline for years on end.
Fifteen centuries ago St. Benedict developed his Rule of Life, an extensive set of principles and rules foundational to the way of life in hundreds of monastic orders. These rules seem daunting to those of us living fast-paced lives, those of us who tear out of the starting blocks every morning, without warming up. The idea of taking ten minutes to plan my day, having a few quiet thoughts to contemplate best use of my day, seeking Higher guidance doesn’t even occur to me most days. Often I’ve left a cloud of dust in my wake as I careen into another day, occluding any clarity I might have received from divine guidance. Many days find me spinning my wheels.
The most successful man on earth lived a short life in dusty deserts devoid of communication resources, yet managed to transform life for billions. He knew the secret of going off into quiet places early in the day, seeking Divine direction for His days. Jesus in a mere three years accomplished more than the rest of us could ever conceive of, yet He told us if we seek Him, we ourselves could do even greater things.
An anonymous meditation exhorts me to slow down before I rocket into my cloud of hyperactivity. “Calmness is constructive of good. Agitation is destructive of good. I should not rush into action. I should first “be still and know that He is God.” Then I should act only as God directs me through my conscience. Only trust, perfect trust in God, can keep me calm when all around me are agitated. Calmness is trust in action. I should seek all things that can help me to achieve calmness. To attain material things, the world learns to attain speed. To attain spiritual things, I have to learn to attain a state of calm.” Jesus and St Benedict figured this out, transforming the lives of those around them.
Some of us don’t know how to attain calm, moving at the speed of light doing things we think all too important. Even after nearly forty years of claiming a spiritual/religious way of life, I’ve struggled endlessly with looking both ways before crossing the street into the activities of the day. For me, the ultimate challenge is doing ‘nothing’.
Transforming spiritual practices are challenging to acquire. Even the apostle Paul described his ongoing struggles with a lack of self control, a failure to discipline himself declaring, “I don’t do the things I would and do the things I wouldn’t.” Perhaps learning to crawl will lead me to baby steps, to the ability to walk, to jog, then to run fully the race set before me. Another anonymous writer declares, “Discipline of yourself is absolutely necessary before the power of God is given to you. When you see others manifesting the power of God, you probably have not seen the discipline that went before. They made themselves ready. All your life is a preparation for more good to be accomplished when God knows that you are ready for it. So keep disciplining yourself in the spiritual life every day. Learn so much of the spiritual laws that your life cannot again be a failure.”
I’ve taken it on as a challenge to exercise one small discipline every day, to go into the chapel in my house for ten minutes at first waking. It doesn’t matter what I do in there, only that I get there. Merely disciplining myself to go into a set apart space for ten minutes is about as much as I can muster in the way of discipline. I take a cell phone in there with me and set the alarm for ten minutes and then get in a position of repose. It doesn’t matter if I read or what I think during those ten minutes. All I have to do is be in there every day first thing. I can hope visiting a disused room daily for mere moments a day will result in having occasional thoughts of God, of seeking His will, of actually experiencing a quiet mind for a few seconds. One day I might find I have been still and known God for a few moments. It just might transform my world.
Mattie Stepanek lived an extraordinary life, accomplishing more in thirteen years than a dozen of us combined could in a hundred. He transformed the world around him with his best seller Heartsong books. Leaving a legacy of peace, poetry, art and philosophy, Mattie changed the lives of presidents, celebrities and millions struggling with disability before dying himself from a genetic nightmare that previously killed all his siblings. Mattie learned to live in what a preacher called ‘thin space’; that place where your spirit and God are in closest contact. Living on the edge of mortality has a way of keeping one in thin space.
We don’t have to be on the edge of mortality, as Mattie was, in order to be in that thin space where we hear extraordinary things from God. In recovery we learn we are able through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God. We can often visit our thin space. I’ve learned from often impoverished uneducated addicts the source of true riches and true knowledge.
I think I better go in the other room before the phone rings.
Cutting the Heart Out of America 6-1-11
Anderson, South Carolina
Perhaps the most haunting images I’ve ‘collected’ in many journeys to Latin America are those from Mayan and Aztec worlds depicting human sacrifice. Many early cosmologies included beliefs that pantheons of Gods could be appeased only by sacrificing thousands of hapless victims, often young virgins and men in their prime. Standing on rims of sacred cenotes and vast plinths with their Chocmools I wondered about innocent lives violently surrendered by priests wielding their obsidian knives. On one occasion Aztec priests put some 80,000 victims to death; only possible because of prevailing beliefs among Aztecs that life was somehow stolen from the gods. The larger population would be allowed to continue enjoying life only if some substantial fraction was forfeited on a regular basis. Young girls in freshening adolescence could only tremble in fear, wondering if priests would soon cut their hearts out with their razor sharp edges. Those brutal cosmologies have eroded away with time, remembered only in the work of archeologists.
Ostensibly we’ve become more enlightened in the present era; organized religions giving up human sacrifice. Have we? Even if misguided, Mayans and Aztecs believed individual sacrifice, even if involuntary, somehow contributed to a higher good. Far more pointless voluntary individual sacrifices are being made in our own times, with no good forthcoming. The well being of half a dozen nations has been severely compromised by unwilling sacrifices on their parts, driven by American behavior.
A once beautiful young blond woman, perhaps now 33 years old, wears age lines of someone thirty years older. She relates eighteen years of addiction to powder cocaine followed by two years free of any intoxicants. Friday she met new ‘friends’ who introduced her to methamphetamine. From Friday night until Sunday night she took a ride on meth she could not even articulate the nature of. She sat before me lamenting the voluntary sacrifice of her drug-free life; describing how one goes about losing an apartment, a car, and life savings in a mere weekend. She could not articulate why she’d made such a severe sacrifice. It was evident methamphetamine had cut the heart out of her life, sans obsidian blades. I wonder how it will be for her this weekend.
Another very young man sitting before me, still quite attractive in his youthful masculinity, describes how he sacrificed his life to heroin. He made the sacrifice that keeps on taking, having contracted hepatitis C from dirty needles. Hepatitis C can be every bit as demanding as Pre-Columbian priests, only the priests did not exact as much long-term misery as cocaine, meth, and heroin. Alas, there are no cosmologies to explain the willing individual sacrifice of millions to the life-shattering realities of drug addiction.
There are those living around us who are priests of compassion, trying to create cosmologies of hope and faith, giving tortured addicts reasons to seek ways clear of their life-destroying sacrifices. In recent days these priests are being called on to make unplanned sacrifices. One can’t but wonder if they can sustain such unplanned giving.
A Catholic priest and a small cluster of lay people bought a building to provide a place for addicts, alcoholics, and the economically destitute unemployed to take showers, have their clothes washed and dried. Addresses and phone numbers are provided to homeless unemployed filling out job applications; the facility maintained and staffed by unpaid volunteers. Someone seeking his next sacrifice to cocaine took it upon himself to cut out the copper heat exchangers in the air conditioning unit. It takes little imagination to visualize what it feels like to have six showers operating in a small building without air conditioning here in the heat and humidity of summer in the American South. Repairs were $6000. The copper yielded perhaps $30 at the scrap yard, enough for one cocaine buzz.
A local business man here owns a restaurant and his generous heart has found room for recovering cocaine addicts and alcoholics on his staff. He and his fellow church members are in process of opening several recovery houses for addicts. Opening his establishment to twelve step recovery groups, he has become known in the recovery world as a priest of great compassion. Alas, four days ago he opened his establishment to find the heart cut out of his air conditioning unit. He was called on to make an involuntary sacrifice that did no good.
Our community theater is barely surviving because of ‘new normal’ fiscal realities in America. There’s uncertainty as to the future economic viability of this community asset, now unable to sustain itself economically. Three weeks ago one of our five-ton air compressors was found gutted. No obsidian fragments were found nearby, yet we do watch for dirty needles. A new five-ton commercial unit is more than $10,000. Word got around about the theater losing its AC. The community response has been to stay away from the theater and we are now suffering the worst attendance in my seventeen years of participation. Our sacrifice contributed nothing to the greater good.
A small volunteer music academy provides music lessons and performance opportunities for children. Are young restless children going to want to go to their piano lessons and stay on task in a building where the ambient air temperature is in three digits? In the tortured minds of too many addicts, the music academy’s mission ranks below the need for the next high. In addition to replacing an air compressor the costs of putting up fencing and barbed wire was exacted from the academy’s shoe-string budget.
A dumpy cinder-block building in our town provides about twenty five recovery meetings each week to hundreds of alcoholics and addicts. Those going through the tortures of detox and withdrawal are especially sensitive to heat, exacerbated by the emotional tsunami which are part and parcel with breaking free of addictive curses. One night I was passing behind the building and observed peculiar sounds from the air compressor. Closer inspection revealed little of it to be found except the cooling fan still running, writhing on the ground. A few days later the few remaining specks of copper were picked clean by unknown vultures. That little building with glass walls became an oven for weeks, resulting in collapsing meeting attendance.
Several struggling churches working in disadvantaged parts of town lost their air conditioning units in recent weeks. One installed a new one, only to have it cut out weeks later. These churches were called to share in involuntary sacrifices.
Police suggest net payment for copper stolen from these assorted places of compassion was about $200, less than one day’s lining on cocaine. Real costs to these organizations were probably more than $30,000 plus disruptions to their missions.
The very places offering messages of hope, a refreshing shower, safe places to find understanding, pleasing diversions; these were kicked in the teeth by an intensity of selfishness that is nearly unprecedented in our experience. An astounding selfishness comes from addiction; repeatedly I hear cravings for the next high, the next buzz override all other considerations in life. Those caught in the throes of addiction willingly steal from their mothers, destroy those they love the most, anything to get high.
In 1939 twelve steps were written down, transforming the lives of millions destroyed by the scourges of addition. The eleventh step implored those millions through prayer and meditation to improve their conscious contact with God as they understood Him, asking only for knowledge of His will and the power to carry it out. By admitting to our powerlessness over our addictions and burgeoning selfishness, by working these steps, we were able to experience a spiritual awakening which “revolutionized our whole attitude toward life, towards our fellows and toward God’s universe.” We stopped cutting the hearts out of those around us and became givers rather than takers.
The individualism and selfishness washing over a progressively more secular and consumption-driven culture has brought us to a place of national addiction to our ‘stuff’ and intense experiences, willing to destroy our own lives and the social fabric of our communities. As individuals and as a nation we willingly sacrifice our future economic and societal largesse on the altars of image, consumption, and entertainment. We’ve become addicted to games, entertainments, spectator sports, electronic gadgets, even our adrenalin rushes. We run no less threat of personal peril or risk for those we love by continuing in our collective national addictions than if we go to the ‘hood and buy cocaine processed in Peru, heroin made in Afghanistan, or marijuana grown in the high deserts of Mexico. Our national debt, personal debt, and trade imbalances put us in no less financial danger than squandering the paycheck on liquor and cocaine.
Perhaps it’s time for our nation to enter into recovery. Three thousand years ago another imperative was given to us, challenging us to seek God through prayer and meditation. “If my people who are called by My name humble themselves and pray, and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from Heaven, will forgive their sin, and will heal their land.” As we say in recovery, “If you want what we have then you have to do what we do.”
Our nation’s welfare, even that of many other lands, is dependent on you wanting the right thing. It just might be the coolest thing you ever did.
Perhaps the most haunting images I’ve ‘collected’ in many journeys to Latin America are those from Mayan and Aztec worlds depicting human sacrifice. Many early cosmologies included beliefs that pantheons of Gods could be appeased only by sacrificing thousands of hapless victims, often young virgins and men in their prime. Standing on rims of sacred cenotes and vast plinths with their Chocmools I wondered about innocent lives violently surrendered by priests wielding their obsidian knives. On one occasion Aztec priests put some 80,000 victims to death; only possible because of prevailing beliefs among Aztecs that life was somehow stolen from the gods. The larger population would be allowed to continue enjoying life only if some substantial fraction was forfeited on a regular basis. Young girls in freshening adolescence could only tremble in fear, wondering if priests would soon cut their hearts out with their razor sharp edges. Those brutal cosmologies have eroded away with time, remembered only in the work of archeologists.
Ostensibly we’ve become more enlightened in the present era; organized religions giving up human sacrifice. Have we? Even if misguided, Mayans and Aztecs believed individual sacrifice, even if involuntary, somehow contributed to a higher good. Far more pointless voluntary individual sacrifices are being made in our own times, with no good forthcoming. The well being of half a dozen nations has been severely compromised by unwilling sacrifices on their parts, driven by American behavior.
A once beautiful young blond woman, perhaps now 33 years old, wears age lines of someone thirty years older. She relates eighteen years of addiction to powder cocaine followed by two years free of any intoxicants. Friday she met new ‘friends’ who introduced her to methamphetamine. From Friday night until Sunday night she took a ride on meth she could not even articulate the nature of. She sat before me lamenting the voluntary sacrifice of her drug-free life; describing how one goes about losing an apartment, a car, and life savings in a mere weekend. She could not articulate why she’d made such a severe sacrifice. It was evident methamphetamine had cut the heart out of her life, sans obsidian blades. I wonder how it will be for her this weekend.
Another very young man sitting before me, still quite attractive in his youthful masculinity, describes how he sacrificed his life to heroin. He made the sacrifice that keeps on taking, having contracted hepatitis C from dirty needles. Hepatitis C can be every bit as demanding as Pre-Columbian priests, only the priests did not exact as much long-term misery as cocaine, meth, and heroin. Alas, there are no cosmologies to explain the willing individual sacrifice of millions to the life-shattering realities of drug addiction.
There are those living around us who are priests of compassion, trying to create cosmologies of hope and faith, giving tortured addicts reasons to seek ways clear of their life-destroying sacrifices. In recent days these priests are being called on to make unplanned sacrifices. One can’t but wonder if they can sustain such unplanned giving.
A Catholic priest and a small cluster of lay people bought a building to provide a place for addicts, alcoholics, and the economically destitute unemployed to take showers, have their clothes washed and dried. Addresses and phone numbers are provided to homeless unemployed filling out job applications; the facility maintained and staffed by unpaid volunteers. Someone seeking his next sacrifice to cocaine took it upon himself to cut out the copper heat exchangers in the air conditioning unit. It takes little imagination to visualize what it feels like to have six showers operating in a small building without air conditioning here in the heat and humidity of summer in the American South. Repairs were $6000. The copper yielded perhaps $30 at the scrap yard, enough for one cocaine buzz.
A local business man here owns a restaurant and his generous heart has found room for recovering cocaine addicts and alcoholics on his staff. He and his fellow church members are in process of opening several recovery houses for addicts. Opening his establishment to twelve step recovery groups, he has become known in the recovery world as a priest of great compassion. Alas, four days ago he opened his establishment to find the heart cut out of his air conditioning unit. He was called on to make an involuntary sacrifice that did no good.
Our community theater is barely surviving because of ‘new normal’ fiscal realities in America. There’s uncertainty as to the future economic viability of this community asset, now unable to sustain itself economically. Three weeks ago one of our five-ton air compressors was found gutted. No obsidian fragments were found nearby, yet we do watch for dirty needles. A new five-ton commercial unit is more than $10,000. Word got around about the theater losing its AC. The community response has been to stay away from the theater and we are now suffering the worst attendance in my seventeen years of participation. Our sacrifice contributed nothing to the greater good.
A small volunteer music academy provides music lessons and performance opportunities for children. Are young restless children going to want to go to their piano lessons and stay on task in a building where the ambient air temperature is in three digits? In the tortured minds of too many addicts, the music academy’s mission ranks below the need for the next high. In addition to replacing an air compressor the costs of putting up fencing and barbed wire was exacted from the academy’s shoe-string budget.
A dumpy cinder-block building in our town provides about twenty five recovery meetings each week to hundreds of alcoholics and addicts. Those going through the tortures of detox and withdrawal are especially sensitive to heat, exacerbated by the emotional tsunami which are part and parcel with breaking free of addictive curses. One night I was passing behind the building and observed peculiar sounds from the air compressor. Closer inspection revealed little of it to be found except the cooling fan still running, writhing on the ground. A few days later the few remaining specks of copper were picked clean by unknown vultures. That little building with glass walls became an oven for weeks, resulting in collapsing meeting attendance.
Several struggling churches working in disadvantaged parts of town lost their air conditioning units in recent weeks. One installed a new one, only to have it cut out weeks later. These churches were called to share in involuntary sacrifices.
Police suggest net payment for copper stolen from these assorted places of compassion was about $200, less than one day’s lining on cocaine. Real costs to these organizations were probably more than $30,000 plus disruptions to their missions.
The very places offering messages of hope, a refreshing shower, safe places to find understanding, pleasing diversions; these were kicked in the teeth by an intensity of selfishness that is nearly unprecedented in our experience. An astounding selfishness comes from addiction; repeatedly I hear cravings for the next high, the next buzz override all other considerations in life. Those caught in the throes of addiction willingly steal from their mothers, destroy those they love the most, anything to get high.
In 1939 twelve steps were written down, transforming the lives of millions destroyed by the scourges of addition. The eleventh step implored those millions through prayer and meditation to improve their conscious contact with God as they understood Him, asking only for knowledge of His will and the power to carry it out. By admitting to our powerlessness over our addictions and burgeoning selfishness, by working these steps, we were able to experience a spiritual awakening which “revolutionized our whole attitude toward life, towards our fellows and toward God’s universe.” We stopped cutting the hearts out of those around us and became givers rather than takers.
The individualism and selfishness washing over a progressively more secular and consumption-driven culture has brought us to a place of national addiction to our ‘stuff’ and intense experiences, willing to destroy our own lives and the social fabric of our communities. As individuals and as a nation we willingly sacrifice our future economic and societal largesse on the altars of image, consumption, and entertainment. We’ve become addicted to games, entertainments, spectator sports, electronic gadgets, even our adrenalin rushes. We run no less threat of personal peril or risk for those we love by continuing in our collective national addictions than if we go to the ‘hood and buy cocaine processed in Peru, heroin made in Afghanistan, or marijuana grown in the high deserts of Mexico. Our national debt, personal debt, and trade imbalances put us in no less financial danger than squandering the paycheck on liquor and cocaine.
Perhaps it’s time for our nation to enter into recovery. Three thousand years ago another imperative was given to us, challenging us to seek God through prayer and meditation. “If my people who are called by My name humble themselves and pray, and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from Heaven, will forgive their sin, and will heal their land.” As we say in recovery, “If you want what we have then you have to do what we do.”
Our nation’s welfare, even that of many other lands, is dependent on you wanting the right thing. It just might be the coolest thing you ever did.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
